Heat
by scaf
Summary: A missing scene from 5.11 / Jane's POV


_It's been a while, but I'm back - trying to get in the swing of things. This is a one off I wrote for a friend. There's no plan for a sequel. It should go without out saying, but I don't own them. _

_ Thanks for reading, Scaf_

It's hot. The kind of hot that leaves you breathless - the weight of the air cloying and wet. You attempted a run this morning but it felt as though you were running through quicksand. Struggling to breathe after only 10 minutes forced you to give up prematurely. And then there's her.

You've managed for years now to keep your attraction in check. Five years, to be exact. Five years of averting your gaze from her mouth or her chest. Five years of shoulder rubs and hand holding and sitting too close together on the couch. Five years of holding back those words you are desperate to speak. I love you. I want you. I have wanted you for years.

You are convinced you could make her happy. If only...

Her lab is cool. You have been down to see her at least four times today and only one of those times you had an actual reason to be there. There is a fine sheen of sweat on her skin, even in the cool air of the morgue. It makes you imagine things. Inappropriate things that a best friend shouldn't think of her other half. She is working quietly, performing an autopsy and speaking authoritatively into her recorder. Watching her work is mesmerizing. There is a delicate, nuanced art in the way she moves. Every movement precise. Every observation succinct and backed by scientific fact. You soon find that being in her presence creates a different kind of heat. The kind of heat that coils in your belly and shoots out to more intimate places. When she looks up at you and smiles you blush. Looking down at your scuffed boots you make some excuse and leave abruptly. She watches you, her eyes narrowed in keen observation. Little do you know, she too feels like five years is too long to wait for what she wants.

Seven hours later you sit alone in your apartment. It was hot before but is fucking stifling now. All of your windows are open, but what good is that when there isn't a breeze. The city is in the middle of a heat wave, yet you figured that someone , somewhere would have an air conditioner for sale.

You are an idiot.

You practically invited yourself over Maura's and then finked out on dinner and sleepover plans. She was perfectly willing to put on her central air for You. But the thought of her sleeping naked has not left your mind all day. How did you not know that? How did that never come up? Ugh! You slam your fists on your couch and Jo scurries for safety.

Your neck is wet, and you're now sweating through your third tank top. You wonder what Maura's doing right now. You wonder if she's in bed. Your want of her has graduated to a steady ache. You feel it all the time, but you feel it most at night. You lay alone and wonder if Jack is with her. She hasn't mentioned him, and it makes you curious. It could mean that they are over and she just hasn't gotten around to sharing. Or it could mean that they are more serious than you thought possible. You wonder if he's aware of her sleeping habits. The anger is back now. You feel a bead of sweat roll down the small of your back and shove your face in the closest pillow and scream.

You almost don't hear the knock, you're so focused on the heat and your anger. But the knock is stronger the second time. You glance at your watch and note the time. 10:05. There is only one person who would even consider visiting this late. You swagger over to the door and yank it open, forgetting your wearing nothing more than a white tank top and black boy shorts. Maura stands before you, her eyebrow arched and a smirk planted firmly on her face. She is as put together as she always is, but there's that goddamn sheen again, regardless of the sleeveless blouse and white cotton shorts. You're trying not to stare, but she is sweating, and the sweat is taking its time, rolling down the nape of her neck and into the swell of her breasts. You can't look away. It's tempting you, and your tongue is desperate to trail it's path and to taste her copper, freckled skin. She is talking. You think. Something about you looking faint. She's asking how much water you've had and now you imagine drinking...from her. And then you're surrounded by black.

When you open your eyes, she is leaning above you. A cool compress in one hand, the other on your neck. She has soaked through her shirt. Your apartment has to be at least 100 degrees and it's most likely she's been running about trying to find a way to cool you off. Her hair is stuck to her forehead, and there are two huge moons of sweat beneath her arms. Dr. Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts has pit stains. The ridiculousness of that thought makes you snort in laughter. Her concerned expression flits into one of consternation. She thinks you're making fun of her. Before she can pull away, you grab her neck and kiss her.

Oh my fucking God what did you do?!

It's your first thought, but certainly not your last. She tastes of salt and some kind of fruity tea. Or maybe sangria? You are unsure, but your intention of defining the taste is soon surpassed with the realization that she's kissing you back. And hard. Her tongue is wrestling with yours and you actually like it. Passionate kisses in the past left you gagging and disgusted - but this is different. Way different than anything you have ever experienced in your entire kissing life. Maura is as perfect at this as she is with everything else. It's rough, but not. It's sloppy, but not. And the minute you hear her whimper when you use your teeth, you are pretty sure you will never kiss anyone else again. Her need is as ferocious as yours, and as she straddles you on the floor in your living room, and you feel her hardened nipples against your chest, the blackness threatens to swallow you up again. There is no way this is happening. This has to be a dream.

Stay with me, she sighs. Her mouth on yours.

You feel so good, she continues.

And it's only the crack of lightening and the boom of thunder that manages to pull you apart. She pulls back slowly, her hazel eyes fixed on yours as though she's trying, now, to convince herself that this is real. You trace a bead of sweat across her temple with your forefinger and she shivers. You wonder how it took you this long to act - but you are grateful. For your courage. For the heat. And for her. The downpour commences and a hint of a breeze ripples through the room.

Come to bed, she whispers.

And you follow.


End file.
